


keep your eyes on mine

by cosmicaa



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Light dom/sub undertones, M/M, Mentions of slight child abuse, Pining, Power Play, Some slight angst but its all good, atonement au, howon is tragically in love with sungjong but what else is new, i couldn't decide between bottom sungjong or bottom howon so there are mentions of both, i guess, like i'm not sure if i should even tag it but just in case, like really light, like the movie except this is much happier and :-), now time for the smut tags, so much pining, some weird, this fic is a MESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 18:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3457370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicaa/pseuds/cosmicaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“…falling in love could be achieved in a single word—a glance.”</p><p>or an au where sungjong is the pretty rich boy with big doe eyes and howon is the one who works for him. pining ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep your eyes on mine

**Author's Note:**

> wow i am so sorry about this. i started and finished this last year and it is finally here even though i don't even pay attention to kpop anymore!! but yes this is an atonement au (the movie version) except ten times more happier and nothing sad happens in the end :-) this is all thanks to nora... who has hurt me too many times but. here it is.
> 
> ive read this over like 20 times in just the past 24 hours after editing every little thing so sorry if i've skipped over anything!!
> 
> also please heed the warnings. especially the abuse part, which is both physical and emotional. it's mentioned at least twice but if that isn't for u then turn back now!!

 

 

howon wakes up minutes before his alarm is set to go off. the sun is filtering in through the window and gets into his eyes, the birds chirping outside making him want to rip his own hair out as the dread and excitement continues to curl at the pit of his stomach. he’s sweaty, his pajama pants sticking uncomfortably to his thighs, and he really should get up and shower and get ready to go out to the mansion but that also means facing sungjong for the first time in weeks.

howon had tried in forgetting about the boy during the couple of weeks he had been granted off—trying to forget the sweet sleepy smile sungjong would give him every morning, or the way he would bite his bottom lip raw when he was concentrating on his studies, knowing that howon would be staring, or how he would gently touch the small of howon’s back when he would pass as he carries a box upstairs, or the way he would coyly look up at him from under his eyelashes during dinner while howon desperately tries to keep his arm steady as he pours wine for sungjong’s mother, or the freckles on his back that he had accidentally saw when he walked in without knocking and the blush that had risen to sungjong’s face was just so—

his alarm suddenly goes off, thankfully saving howon another 30 minutes in bed where he daydreamed about sungjong’s _back freckles_ for gods sakes, and he finally climbs out of bed, nearly crawling to the shower where he would very much try not think about sungjong or his toothy smile.

 

 

 

 

the key word was “try,” so obviously it didn’t work out very well for him.

he had been setting the table for breakfast with sungyeol, a high schooler who usually worked the morning hours, laughing at something that had happened while he was gone when sungjong walks in.

he had obviously just rolled out of bed—his hair a disaster and falling into his drowsy eyes, wearing a shirt that was a lovely shade of royal green that was barely hanging onto his shoulders, big enough to dip low and show off his smooth pale skin and have the sleeves covering the sight of his slender fingers.

“what are we having for—“ sungjong paused in the middle of the doorway, staring straight at howon. he has to resist looking away, remembering when sungjong told him to always look him in the eyes, even when his mother told him not to because it was a sign of disrespect. “oh. you’re back.”

he can’t find the words to reply—to tell him that they need to stop, that sungjong needs to stop, that _whatever they have_ needs to stop—instead the sleepy glaze in sungjong’s eyes stop him dead and his tongue suddenly weighs ten thousand tons, so the only thing he could do is bow, ignoring how sungjong’s eyes turn hard, and continue to arrange the silverware in the right order.

before sungjong could reply, or snark if he’s in a mood this morning, the rest of the family comes bustling in and howon is told to fetch the orange juice or the extra napkins or whatever it is—all the while very adamantly ignoring sungjong’s glare burning at the back of his head.

 

 

 

 

 

the day continues like that—that being sungjong very pointedly ignoring howon’s existence as he comes in to tidy his room or ask if he needed anything. he would barely spare howon a glance as he continued to type at his desk or read by the window while howon would very much try not to show that his hands were shaking as he picks up the papers scattered all over the floor.

howon’s organizing the boy’s miniature library in his room—probably the only person in the entire house who still reads print—and tries to ignore the stifling silence in the room. he’s wondering when and how had the boy had gotten so sloppy while he was gone when sungjong finally speaks up, though not once looking up from his book.

“how was it back home?”

howon nearly drops the book he’s holding, a classic that his brother, woohyun, had gotten him for his birthday, even though their main library was about the size of howon’s little cottage on the outskirts of the property and probably even had the first print. sungjong has never read it before and probably never will.

he thinks about the time that sungjong’s parents had let him have off—only because his mother had gotten sick and even the maids that came once a week were too busy worrying over him rather than the mansion. he had spent a few weeks at his mother’s bedside, his heart seizing in his chest every time she so much as coughed, and desperately trying to ignore his father’s harsh angry whispers that followed him even into his dreams. he had thought about his father’s words, but he had also thought about how sungjong’s eyes would turn soft when he would look at him, how the corner of his mouth would always quirk up behind his mother’s back, how sungjong will eventually have to go to college and be very far far away from him.

“it was fine, sir,” howon responds quietly.

it’s silent for a moment, one that stretches on for what feels like hours and makes howon fidget.

“you know i told you to not call me that.”

and howon is surprised that he remembers, because it had happened so long ago—when they were kids and they barely even knew each other. he would tug howon along to whatever mischievous thing he was going to do and, because sungjong’s mother had told him to do whatever her son told him to do, he would follow. howon would call him sir even though he was younger than him, and sungjong would wrinkle his little nose and ignore it.

it was after the fourth time they had gotten in trouble after having pranked one of sungjong’s many distant relatives, howon defending the boy and telling his mother that it was his fault even though no one believed him with the look on sungjong’s face, that he had told him to stop calling him sir. he had ordered howon to never call him sir ever again—because howon may be his personal butler but they were friends first.

howon ducks his head, his father’s words of _i knew you would be good at being a butler—a fucking butler! you might as well be a goddamn slave_ and _it’ll do you good to follow someone else’s orders for once_ echoing in his ears. “sorry, sir.”

the slam of a book closing behind him makes him jump, dropping the book in his hands this time. he bends to pick it up, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest as he distantly listens to the sound of approaching footsteps.

“did something happen back home while you were here?” and the genuine concern in sungjong’s voice makes howon desperately wish for the ground to open and swallow him up.

he turns around and sungjong is standing a few feet away from him, hesitant, something that the boy rarely is, and even from this distance he can see the freckles smattered on the bridge of his nose and cheeks that must have appeared while he was gone and the weather had been too nice to ignore.

howon wants to kiss him.

“nothing happened, sir.” howon brings his arms back, one hand holding the other wrist, and he suddenly feels uncomfortable in his own skin.

and nothing had happened at home, not really. his mom was still sick—not getting worse but not exactly getting better—and he wouldn’t have come back to the mansion if it weren’t for the fact that even his own mother was growing tired of his moping and had told him to go do something productive. he felt guilty, leaving her, but the soft look she gave him before he left made him feel a little bit better on the train ride home.

sungjong’s face transforms then—from genuine concern to cold and impassive, the one that always appears on his young face when his family hosts parties that includes other rich families and their spoiled children. sungjong would appear bored at those parties, plastering a grin that wouldn’t quite reach his eyes when he greeted family friends, and then would  hover close to howon who would be dressed in an old and stuffy suit while holding a platter of some french cuisine that looked absolutely repulsive. howon would mutter jokes under his breath, loud enough for sungjong to hear, bad ones that he knows he would find funny, and he would turn right in time to see the boy quickly crack a smile or raise a hand to cover his mouth as he laughed. his eyes would crinkle and give him away.

howon feels something drop in his stomach at the fact that the one expression he’s utterly hated the most is directed at him.

“alright,” sungjong says curtly, and howon wants nothing more than to kiss him until he’s breathless and he stops looking at him like that. he nods at the door and howon watches his hair move and then smoothly fall back into place. “you can leave now.”

howon bows and leaves, resisting the urge to turn around and do something ridiculous—anything—that will make sungjong laugh that special little laugh reserved only for him.

 

 

 

 

 

he doesn’t see sungjong around the mansion for the rest of the week.

howon doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

 

 

 

 

 

he’s sitting at his old rickety desk, writing a letter to send to his mom later, when something at the corner of his vision catches his attention.

the stack of folded up letters is neat, nearly perfect, but just looking at them makes howon tighten his grip on his pencil.

he couldn’t afford a cellphone, even with the pay he gets from working for sungjong and his family, and had absolutely refused when sungjong had offered to buy one for him.

he didn’t have that many friends anyway; losing touch after he had moved and everyone else making a living back in his hometown. the only person he would talk to is sungjong—who he’s literally attached to at the hip (or was)—and maybe even sungyeol, if he was that desperate.

he knew that sungjong wouldn’t call, not wanting to add to their outrageous phone bill due to howon’s own calls back home, so he had been ecstatic when he received the first letter—nearly two pages of nothing but sungjong’s neat scrawl. they consisted of nothing but how he had been since howon had left just a few days ago and how he was spending his free time since his own personal slave wasn’t there for him to boss around. he had read it at his mother’s side, silently, and she had asked him why he had been smiling when he didn’t even realize he was.

howon had replied back just as eagerly, telling him how these past few days have been and how the weather out here was completely different from the mansion’s. he doesn’t tell him about his mother, or his father so as to not worry the boy—he doesn’t need to know about any of that.

but then his mother had gotten worse, his father had gotten drunker, and howon had remembered that _he’ll leave they always do_ and his letters turn from two full length pages to scraps of paper with one sentence.

sungjong had eventually noticed, the letters dwindling down to nothing, and howon had nothing to keep himself anchored when he fell asleep in their tiny little house.

looking at the letters now, the noticeable loops in sungjong’s handwriting peeking out, makes him want to crumple them or burn them or toss them into the lake and never think about that stupid boy ever again.

howon turns back to his letter instead.

 

 

 

 

 

breakfast is quiet the next day, or at least maybe it is to howon, who is desperately trying not to stare at the way sungjong would lick his lips after taking a drink from his orange juice and the huff of laughter he makes when woohyun does something particularly embarrassing to catch sungyeol’s attention as he reaches in to take away a dirty plate.

sungjong leaves first, not sparing him a second glance from where he’s posted right next to the door. there’s a sudden faint smell of laundry detergent and the sunlight that always filters in through sungjong’s open window and howon is desperately thinking about sungyeol’s dirty feet or the messy way that boy eats.

“hey, howon!”

“yes?” and he’s still thinking about that certain smell of sunshine.

“do you know what’s wrong with sungjong?” woohyun asks, looking as concerned as one could be with bacon hanging out the corner of their mouth.

“no, sorry, i don’t know. he told me to leave him alone,” howon lies, right through his teeth, because surely their mother will do something if she finds out about his avoidance since, obviously, he couldn’t tell them that their poor butler has been crushing on their beautiful son since the day they met.

“would you mind keeping an eye on him for me?” she asks, as if she was able to read his mind and wants to watch him suffer.

he reluctantly agrees and, with one final bow, leaves the room.

he takes the stairs slowly, one at a time, and he’s desperately racking his brain for something to do because it’s going to be awkward and stilted and he’s going to melt right in that boy’s hand if he so much as looks at him.

he’s just about to knock on the door when it opens and he’s suddenly extremely close to sungjong’s face, freckles and all.

sungjong’s surprise instantly morphs into a sort of glare when he pushes past him with a force that makes howon exhale sharply and a heat settle in the pit of his stomach.

“sungjong-ah, where are you going?” howon blurts out, and he mentally kicks himself because _so much for keeping distance._

sungjong looks at him—he just _looks_ at him, and it makes howon nervous because he can’t exactly _say_ anything about it. not really.

he thinks he’s going to yell at him, or tell him to get lost and that he’s leaving howon for good and he’s never going to think about howon the way howon thinks about him.

he’s just about to run into sungjong’s room and throw himself out the window when the corner of sungjong’s mouth quirks up and he nods towards the stairs. “c’mon.”

the boy runs off down the stairs without him, his oversized white button-up trailing after him. from the floor below, howon could see sungjong trying to hide a smile—small and sweet and so familiar that howon has no choice but to follow.

 

 

 

 

 

 howon doesn’t question where they’re going when he spots the expensive-looking vase sungjong is carrying in one hand and a bundle of flowers in the next. he had thought they were going to do something up to no good again, bothering his mother or just everyone in the house, except this time sungjong is lacking that coy look on his face and he recognizes the vase as the one that the boy always keeps in his room near the window.

“so where are you gonna go to school?” sungjong asks, swinging the vase as they head towards the fountain in the middle of their yard. howon wants to laugh, because college is the last thing he wants to think about.

“don’t know if i can afford to go,” howon responds, still, because he can never refuse that stupid boy and how he’s already turning pink from the sun.

“oh.” sungjong kicks a rock that doesn’t exactly go straight. “mom wants me to go abroad.”

howon knew it— he fucking _knew_ that the boy was going to leave him one day or another, but saying it out loud—sungjong himself saying it out loud strikes a chord in him that he never knew he had. he suddenly wants nothing more than to turn right on his heel and run straight back to his sad excuse of a house so he could tear and burn those letters that he had been so stupid in keeping. he wants to be selfish and beg him not to go—to not leave him here all alone like he once was before he had met sungjong because no one else was extraordinary as him. he wants to tug that terrible boy’s arm and make him drop that ugly vase and hear it shatter while he kisses sungjong like he had only dreamt of doing since he was ten.

“oh."

sungjong kicks another rock. “yeah.”

howon wants to rip his hair out. “are you gonna go?”

the boy shrugs. “not sure yet. we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

 _until what happens?_ howon wants to ask, except he doesn’t get the chance because they’ve reached the fountain—the stupid annoying unnecessarily large fountain.

they sit at the edge and howon notices sungjong pushing up his sleeves so he could fetch water for the vase.

he ignores the boy’s forearms and grabs the handle on the other side. “i’ll do it.”

“no, it’s alright, i can do it,” sungjong says, tugging at the vase and looking extremely determined. howon smiles and thinks it’s lovely how the boy is so genuine compared to the other kids they see at parties.

“c’mon, i’ll do it,” howon tugs the vase again.

the boy instantly turns to glare at him, though not like the one earlier this week that made howon want to crawl under a rock. right now, he’s almost teasing, and it feels like they’re back to normal again. “howon-ah, it’s okay. i can do it.”

howon instantly wants to let go and let the boy have his way because sungjong _knows_ that saying his name like that, informal and soft, always gets to him. except this time, he _wants_ to do this.

there’s a mini tug-of-war match going on for barely five seconds before the vase breaks—the handle howon was holding breaking off from it completely as another piece flies into the fountain.

thankfully the rest is still intact, but sungjong and howon just stare at each other. the serious look on sungjong’s face makes howon get up and turn his back on him before he can see the grin on his face and hear the laughter starting to form at the back of his throat.

sungjong releases a frustrated groan, but he bites at the corner of his lips to prevent himself from giving in and laughing along with him.

he tries not to laugh, really, he does, except this feels too familiar—before he had left and before things got weird.

“oh my god, she’s going to kill me, “ sungjong sighs, running a hand through his hair. howon still thinks he looks cute.

he should feel bad—he should really feel bad, but he can’t when the boy has that familiar little spots of color on his cheeks. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” he tries to say seriously, but the wide smile on his face gives him away. “i’ll pay for it, i promise.”

he waves him off, leaning over the edge of the fountain and trying to spot the other piece. “it’s fine, it’s fine.”

and then howon watches as sungjong jumps straight into the fountain, disappearing because it’s as deep as a fucking pool, and he has to resist the urge to jump in right after him—so used to having to save him from the deep end of the pool where the boy would wander when they were little kids. but that thought is ridiculous now since he was the one who had taught him how to swim in the first place.

finally, sungjong climbs out of the water, and howon’s about to approach him and give him his shirt or something so he wouldn’t be cold, but the words instantly die in his throat as sungjong runs his hand through his hair and out of his face.

the white shirt that had made the boy look so delicate was now see-through and had stuck itself to sungjong’s lithe body. howon could see every dip and curve of his hips and stomach, ones that he’s only ever had a glimpse of. he could see the softness of his stomach, the lovely shade of red his mouth is as he bites it, how his eyes are wet and huge and staring at howon so innocently, with a dark glint that makes his throat dry. his eyes hone in on a droplet of water trailing down the soft curve of his throat and he suddenly has the urge to lick him clean.

he looks away at the same time sungjong does, facing the forest, and tries to focus on the squirrel dashing into the trees. he can distantly hear the boy shuffling around, even through the blood rushing in his ears, yet he can’t get the image of sungjong’s slender and wet throat and the thought of sucking a mark right under his jaw out of his head. his grip on the vase tightens.

he glances back, immediately regretting it and whipping his head back around because sungjong had bent over to do—god knows what, he probably was doing something ridiculous like checking to make sure there wasn’t a blade of grass stuck in between his toes. but howon had gotten a perfect view of the arch of his spine and the curve of his butt through the soaked shorts and was it even possible for a boy like him to have a body like that?

he hears footsteps approaching and he tries not to think about water droplets on sungjong’s face and eyelids, making his skin shine.

“i—“

that’s all that he manages to get out, his throat closing up again when he feels sungjong’s wet fingers firmly prying the piece of the vase out of howon’s iron grip. he lets go of course, of fucking course he does, and howon turns and watches as the boy nearly runs back to the mansion. his shirt is still dripping, sticking to his back, and the boy is bound to catch a cold, but all howon can think about is how utterly fucked he is.

 

 

 

 

 

“are you and sungjong okay?”

howon jumps at the sound of woohyun’s voice, nearly stabbing his foot with the shovel **.** he’s out in the garden, tending to the flowers and ridding of weeds since their gardener took a sick leave for a few days. he must have been too deep in thought to have heard him approach—intently thinking about the list of chores he has to do today and not about sungjong.

 “yeah, everything's fine.” howon wipes away the sweat off his forehead with his wrist, his back aching and begging to be cracked from how long he had been stooped over. he feels too hot in his own skin, even after getting rid of his shirt a long time ago. is there something wrong?”

he shrugs with one shoulder. “sungjong won’t come out of his room—i even threatened him.”

howon refrains from a witty comeback—him and woohyun might be close, but not close enough to drop formalities and openly joke with each other. like him and sungjong. “i’ll check up on him when i’m finished, yeah?” he says, even though he definitely doesn’t want to.

woohyun smiles charmingly at him, the one that makes girls want to follow him into the wine cellar during dinner parties. “of course, take your time,” he says, and walks back to the mansion to annoy sungyeol in the kitchen or something of that sort, that poor boy. sungyeol never has the heart to tell the older boy to go away and to stop hovering over the soup. he calls woohyun annoying, aggravating, a complete nuisance, but there’s something fond in his tone and he would rather not know the details. he’s already heard too much of woohyun’s late night adventures from sungjong when they had been younger.

howon worked in the garden for the rest of the afternoon, occasionally muttering to himself and cursing the gardener because even that other annoying butler that’s been around longer than he has, sunggyu, could have done a better job.

he mulls over what to have for dinner tomorrow, if there was even anything in the fridge to scrounge up or if he needed to stop by the market, and the material he has to study to at least get by with a diploma, and the laundry that needs to be done so he could stop wearing the ratty old tshirts that were a tad bit too tight for him now. he wonders about the old suit that he needed to dig out for the dinner party that evening, how far back is it in his closet, and whether he should throw away sungjong’s letters that were gathering dust on his desk.

he stands up, finally cracking his back in the process, and dusts the dirt off his pants. he takes a step back to admire his work—definitely better compared to a couple of hours before, and desperately hopes that that wretched gardener gets fired and never comes back.

he puts on the spare shirt that he had brought with him, warm from being in a patch of sun and strangely cooling to his sweaty back. he instinctively cranes his neck to look up at the top right window of the mansion, the white curtains billowing in the summer breeze. howon wonders when sungjong had opened it to let the summer breeze in.

he remembers when they were younger and sungjong would be waiting for him every morning—sticking his head out the window to wait and watch with his drowsy eyes while he walked up to the mansion, yelling at him the entire time on what he had planned for them to do that day. they had gotten older, and sungjong had declared that he was “acting like a child” and he stopped. he had kept the window open though. he kept it open every day, all day, always silently telling howon that he was waiting for him in his room.

howon wanted him to stay. he wanted sungjong to stay in this godforsaken mansion in the middle of nowhere and there was nothing to do except punch each other for the fun of it. howon couldn’t stay here in the mansion with people that, most of the time, pretends he doesn’t even exist. if sungjong hadn’t been here, then there was no doubt that he would have had gone insane with the wide hallways and the high ceilings and the crystal chandeliers.

somehow, sungjong had always been there; when he had broken his wrist by falling down the stairs, or when he had gotten the flu and sungjong had come over to the cottage for the very first time to take care of him as he was spouting out nonsense in his ferverish daze, or when howon’s father had come and visited and sungjong had walked in on him getting hit in the face.

howon wants to be selfish, just this once.

 

 

 

 

 

he runs up the stairs leading to sungjong’s room, an apology of some sort on the tip of his tongu **e.** he rehearses it over and over in his head; _i’m sorry for what happened at the fountain_ or _i didn’t mean to do ignore you_ or _please don’t leave._

he has his hand raised to knock on the large wooden door when he hears it-- a soft breathy moan that reaches howon’s ears. suddenly he wants to bury himself alive.

 _this is definitely not happening_ , he thinks, because the door must be at least several inches thick. if sungjong is doing what he thinks he’s doing, then he shouldn’t be able to hear him from just outside the door, with the bed being on the opposite side of the room.

he hears a lovely little sigh on the other side of the door that makes howon’s blood boil and he wants to hear that noise again, but this time he’d rather have it exhaled into his ear with his hands on the boy’s slender waist.

then there’s the unmistakable sound of skin slapping against skin and suddenly howon feels hot all over, his pants tightening and his cheeks getting hotter.

he’s just about to turn right on his heels and run straight into the forest and possibly never look at sungjong ever again when he hears the fleeting whisper of an utterly wanton “howon-hyung.”

he’s never called him hyung before, but it’s as if the breath is knocked right out of him because he is suddenly remembering how sungjong’s eyes were at the fountain; wet and wide and daring and now howon can’t think about anything else. he wants the son of one of the wealthiest families in the country splayed out on his bed, something devious glinting in his eyes despite the delicate splotches of red on his cheeks, calling him hyung in that soft tone of his.

howon nearly breaks his leg when he runs back down the stairs and out of the mansion.

 

 

 

 

 

he’s sitting at his desk, having a few spare minutes to himself before he needs to get ready, twiddling a pencil in his fingers after having had taken the coldest shower in his entire life and determinedly not letting his hands stray farther than his belly, even with sungjong’s breathy voice echoing inside his head.

he had decided to write out his apology instead of speaking directly to him, since it would almost feel like sending a letter back home, and the fact that howon probably won’t be able to look directly at sungjong’s face without wondering how deep his blush would be when he whines out a _hyung_.

 his trashbin in the corner is already filled to the top with crumpled balls of paper and howon has nearly scratched his head raw thinking of what to write to him without sounding ridiculous.

the sun had already set and howon had left the window open to let the night breeze in. it effectively cooled his heated face, even after the cold shower, but it did nothing to help his straying thoughts.

before he could stop himself, he’s writing and howon’s thoughts wander again. he thinks about the boy’s hands that were soft to the touchand his long eyelashes that always casted shadows against his cheekbones. he remembers a few months back when howon had scraped his knee while chasing after sungjong, like they were ten again, and the boy had gotten down to his knees right in front of him to tend to the scratch. he had glanced up at him through those eyelashes, silently asking _is this okay?_ and howon had swallowed against the lump in his throat and nodded. he thinks about sungjong’s mouth and how it’s always, somehow, the loveliest and most perfect shade of pink he has ever seen, either when he’s sucking on one of his candies or when he’s smiling softly at him with a hand on the nape of howon’s neck.

he had seemingly written an entire essay and howon fidgets when he sits up straighter to read it.

when i dream, i think of you, with your red lips and the dip of your spine. my hand would move from your waist, to your thighs, and then finally grasping at your co—

howon flushes and folds the letter haphazardly. he sets it aside.

 

 

 

 

 

dear sungjong, you must think i’m an idiot for ignoring you and what happened at the fountain, and i don’t blame you. honestly, i think i act more like an idiot around you than anybody else. i’m sorry, will you forgive me?

 

 

 

 

 

howon’s dressed in an old suit that he had stored away underneath his bed—the one he usually wears somehow always ends up in sungjong’s closet, which is obviously out of the question. the suit jacket feels tight around his shoulders and the sleeves are too short, nearly half-way up his forearm, a sign that he’s definitely outgrown it, but he feels confident and determined for sungjong to read his letter, even if he has to force the boy by the shoulders to stop flitting around the house.

his little house is at least a five minute walk from the mansion and howon takes it slow tonight, grateful that he has a spare moment to himself.

the night is quiet aside from the chirping of the cicadas and the rustling of the trees in the summer breeze. the stars are out tonight, more than usual, and howon wishes he could take a piece of his home for his mom, who probably hasn’t seen a living soul besides his dad and his poor excuse of pork cutlet. he feels horribly embarrassed when he thinks about her meeting sungjong, and how she would undoubtedly be head over heels for him.

 it’s been awhile since he had taken the boy out to see the smattering of the stars in the sky, who was always so fond of them and had never gotten a chance to see for himself due to the lights at every corner of the mansion. he remembers telling the boy that the stars had been one of the deciding factors for him to move there, and that he hadn’t been able to see a damn thing back at his parents’ home because they were too close to the city.

the letter was safe in the envelope that he was currently trying not to crumple and throw over the bridge and into the river. it had taken him several tries to perfect it—making sure he had written in a straight line, that the periods weren’t too big or too small, not leaving too much space between characters. 

there’s a burst of familiar laughter coming from the trees that nearly gives him a heart attack. he squints in the darkness, wondering if he should have brought a lighter, but then woohyun is coming out of the shadows with a smile that makes his eyes disappear.

“howon! what are you doing here?” woohyun says cheerfully, breaking the silence.

“the dinner party…” he responds, narrowing his eyes when he notices that woohyun is breathless and flushed.

“right. of course. the dinner party,” he says,  “which i didn’t forget this time.” he laughs, which gives him away.

there’s a breeze that makes their hair fly and howon’s eyes are drawn to the fact that the two top buttons on his shirt are unbuttoned, giving  him the perfect view of a bruise beginning to form at the base of his throat.

not wanting to know, he asks, very pointedly, “are you going back to the mansion now to _get changed_?”

he nods and continues to smile, easily, and howon has always admired his ability to charm his way into getting whatever he wanted.

“can you give this to sungjong?” howon holds out the letter and is stricken with dread at just the thought of standing in the same room as the boy while he reads it. “and can you not read it?”

woohyun gives him a look that says he knows exactly what the contents of the letter contains and nearly rips the envelope out of his hand. with that, he’s off running back into the forest, doing whatever with whomever amidst the trees. howon knows that woohyun won’t read it, having much more important things to do than to be nosey in his little brother’s business, and that he, knowing all the shortcuts and secret paths on the property, will give it to sungjong in time.  

 

 

 

 

 

it’s when he steps into the yard when howon realizes that he had sent the wrong letter.

 

 

 

 

 

today must be howon’s day because it’s sungjong that greets him at the door when he knocks. he notices that he’s wearing one of his expensive suits that had been tailored specifically for him, with the pants that cling to all the right places and not a hair out of place, except for the bowtie which was slightly skewed, as if done in a rush. sungjong fixes him an almost steely gaze, though his eyes tell a different story.

howon wants nothing more than to jump into the river he had passed earlier, but prays that he hadn’t read the letter yet. “hey.”

“i read your letter,” sungjong immediately responds, nearly cutting him off,blunt as always.  there’s a slight flush on his cheeks that howon can’t help but thinks look wonderful on him.

he lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding, distantly aware that his heart his pounding in his ears. “there was another letter—a different version.” he’s embarrassed, he really is, and he’s almost tempted to laugh it off and say it was a joke, except that that would most likely make things worse.

sungjong raises an eyebrow, as if being able to hear exactly what howon was thinking. “then, what was the version i was supposed to read?”

he’s not fidgeting—he swears he’s not, but he is definitely starting to sweat under his ridiculously tight suit. “it was, well, less—“

“dirty?” a genuine smile tugs at sungjong’s lips. howon feels something loosen in his chest.

sungjong opens his mouth to say something—either laugh right at howon’s face or call him an idiot, either was plausible—but he stops himself and looks at him up and down.  howon swears that he lingers on his mouth.

“c’mon,” he says, something that howon wasn’t expecting, and is already walking away without waiting for a response, knowing that he would follow anyway.

the smell of roast and potatoes instantly hit him when he enters the mansion and his stomach is grumbling, but the sight of sungjong looking mischievous and coy again as he looks around and darts into the office/mini library under the staircase, that no one except sungjong’s dad uses, has him following and willing to do whatever the boy wanted.

“you should be glad that woohyun-hyung didn’t read it, you know.” there’s something in sungjong’s voice that howon can’t quite place, slightly distracted when he closes the door and locks it on instinct. the room is too dark, only a tiny lamp in the corner,making howon having to blink multiple times to let his eyes adjust.

sungjong has his back facing him and seems to be gazing at the rows of book titles on the shelf, occasionally grazing them as he runs his hand across, and howon can’t help but be completely enraptured. “who knows what he would’ve done if he was curious.”

the room smells of both old and new ink, as there’s a desk nearby with multiple papers scattered across and a few books opened and stacked upon each other. “he would’ve called me a pervert?” howon tries for a joke, even when there’s nothing more than he would like to ask if sungjong would forgive him and stay.

surprisingly, sungjong laughs—one of those abrupt and genuine ones that make howon want to laugh along with him. he turns around and leans back against the shelf and says, with a lovely and innocent smile, “well, are you?”

this conversation was turning out to be completely different than what he had expected.

“uh.”

the smile on his face widens and he looks like a child again. “that answers the question, then.”

howon opens his mouth, to either refute that or reluctantly agree because he doesn’t even know anymore, except the words die in his throat because the boy’s smile reluctantly drops a noticeable fraction.  

“howon-ah, what happened?”

and it’s that tone again—soft and vulnerable and so like the boy that only he has ever gotten to see behind closed doors. he cautiously takes a step forward, gauging to see if the boy would step back, and is relieved right down to his toes when he doesn’t.

“you’re going to leave,” howon blurts out before he can help himself. sungjong stands there with a curious expression, and it makes him suddenly frustrated. “you’re going to leave me here with your annoying brother who’s in love with sungyeol while you’re on the other side of the goddamn planet and i can’t do anything about it.”

sungjong looks only a little bit shocked, not angry, and very strangely _amused_. yet, despite it all, howon feels like he can finally take a deep breath without feeling weighed down by his own thoughts.

“howon, come here.” it’s not a question, and howon feels like a kid again when he’s rushing forward until he’s standing a respectable distance away. he may have just messed everything up between them, but he’s still technically working for him.

sungjong looks as if he’s trying not to laugh—which he doesn’t understand because either the cruel boy actually hates him or there’s some sort of inside joke that he isn’t a part of.

“i thought you wouldn’t have noticed woohyun-hyung,” sungjong says, still smiling, and the word hyung makes him fidget and he’s suddenly fighting to keep his composure.

“who wouldn’t have noticed…” he mumbles instead, rolling his eyes, not wanting to bring it up. at least, not today.

there must be something about his expression because sungjong’s smile drops and he doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

his hands are suddenly on howon’s shoulders and he’s right there. he feels warmer where sungjong is touching him, almost uncomfortably so, but he can feel him breathing on his lips—barely there puffs of air, and sungjong looks as if he’s trying very hard not to laugh by biting at the corner of his mouth. howon stares.

“you’re an idiot,” he breathes, and his eyes flick up from his mouth to where sungjong looks so very obviously incredulous and annoyed and just a tad bit fond.

howon’s breath catches in his throat when warm and soft fingers are suddenly at the nape of his neck, brushing through the hairs there in such a familiar way that makes him want to close his eyes and lean into the touch, and he would’ve, except that sungjong is leaning in. his lips are slightly parted, not yet touching howon’s, and he’s moving slowly, his soft eyes still on him, going slightly cross-eyed, silently asking him _is this okay?_

 _this is more than okay_ , howon thinks and leans in the rest of the way. he feels sungjong exhale, either in relief or something else, and sungjong’s lips feel too soft to be real. his hands reach up to hold the boy’s face, to kiss him deeper as his thumb strokes lightly over his right cheekbone. sungjong smiles against his lips, then flicks his tongue against his bottom lip before pulling away with a near smirk. howon feels a tad bit light-headed, feeling as if he shouldn’t have liked that as much as he does.

the kiss had been mostly just a press of lips with that touch of sungjong’s tongue at the end, more than he had ever dreamt of, but when he says “i would never leave,” howon doesn’t quite remember what they had been talking about before.

“what?” he says, staring at sungjong’s mouth. his lips are already turning bright red and it makes him feel greedy.

there’s a sigh of exasperation and then sungjong’s lips are on his again. he feels at home.

sungjong’s lips are softer than he had ever expected, nothing like the girls he had so much as pecked on the mouth back at home, but he kisses hard and firm and as if he’s starving, nails raking down the back of his head and neck with their teeth slightly knocking against each other **.** howon hasn’t kissed anyone in years, much less a boy, but sungjong is almost gentle in a way, even when he’s pressing his body closer, making howon feel as if he had been out in the sun for too long when the boy purposefully bites at his bottom lip after his teeth accidentally catch on it. he has to swallow howon’s choked moan.

he feels entirely too warm in his suit with sungjong’s body against his, but he’s also never felt more alive, so when howon starts trailing kisses down the boy’s neck and the boy has to bite back a whine, he’s not entirely surprised when he’s moving them forward until sungjong is pressed up against the bookshelf. he maneuvers his hands until they’re lightly holding onto the boy’s hips, warm and tiny, even though he wants nothing more than to grip him hard enough to leave bruises. sungjong’s hands drop down until he’s gripping howon’s shoulders, hard enough that it’s bordering on painful.

howon bites sharply and suddenly at the spot under sungjong’s jaw— adorned with a smatter of moles that he’s let his eyes linger on far too often—and the boy whines again, arching his back beautifully and throwing his head back against the books. his neck is golden from the dim lamp in the far corner and howon wonders how many bruises he can suck there before anyone notices.

“christ, sungjong,” he mutters, burying his face into the boy’s neck. the action brings their bodies closer—their chests flushed against each other, feeling something hot and hard at the dip of his hip. he tugs at sungjong’s collar a bit, where a mark could easily be hidden, and the sight of all that skin makes howon lick his lips. the boy laughs a little, softly, and his hands come up to pet at the back of howon’s hair. the action makes his chest squeeze, suddenly knocking out his breath.

without thinking, he’s moving his hips back a bit to slot a thigh in between his. he feels sungjong tense and howon starts panicking and moving back—thinking that he’s made a mistake and that sungjong doesn’t actually want him as much as howon wants him.

“what are you doing?” sungjong has his hands on his shoulders, making an endearing effort in keeping him in place.  his tone doesn’t sound rude or hostile, but full of genuine curiosity. “i can hear you thinking from here.”

he tries not to think about how much more blunt the boy seems to be with his collar pulled back and a wild look in his eyes. “are you sure about this?”

sungjong raises an eyebrow and suddenly rubs up against his hip. both of them release a sharp exhale at the same time—the movement sending a pulse of heat through howon and chasing away any other thoughts he had.

“i’m sure,” he says, a dainty little smirk playing at his lips. there’s a flush on his cheeks though, and he’s constantly biting and swiping his tongue across his lips as if he’s impatient and wants nothing more than to come right there against the bookshelf.

howon’s grinning before he could help it—the one that shows off his teeth and sungjong has called endearing once or twice. he buries his face back into sungjong’s neck without warning and he could almost hear him rolling his eyes. he bites at that same spot underneath sungjong’s jaw in retaliation and muffles his own groan when sungjong whines again, hands scrabbling at howon’s back.

he moves down a bit, licking and sucking at the boy’s throat—making the kind of marks on his pale throat that he has only dreamed of and his mother will reprimand him for. he can’t help but think that sungjong tastes like summer and sweat and he wants _more_.

sungjong scrambles to unbutton howon’s jacket and push it off of his shoulders, taking time to rub up and down his arms and across his shoulders through the shirt with his slender fingers that leave trails of heat after, marveling at the muscles he’sgained from several hours in the garden. his hands come up to hold howon’s jaw, dragging him in for a kiss that leaves him dizzy and thrusting weakly against the younger’s hip. sungjong smiles into the kiss, something dangerous and scheming and is starting to become slowly familiar to him.

the boy breaks the kiss, as much as he can while being pinned to a bookshelf, and howon’s embarrassed enough to say that he leans in after him, wanting more, but then sungjong’s ducking his head, throwing his jacket off and unbuckling his pants. howon stares, frozen in place and blood rushing in his ears.

he notices and tries not to laugh, biting at the corner of his bottom lip. howon watches the movement.

“yours too,” sungjong nods at his pants, cocking an eyebrow.

it almost sounds like a command—one that makes him flush and immediately comply. his hands are trembling, just a fraction, but he’ll never admit it.

he’s hard, almost painfully so in the pants that he has obviously outgrown, and when he takes his cock out he sighs in relief.

he’s being tugged in by a hand on the back of his neck, nearly knocking his forehead against sungjong’s as he grabs at both of their cocks in one hand. howon breathes out a moan, burying his face into sungjong’s sweaty neck. the smell of sunlight is stronger, mixed in with something heady and soft that’s inexplicably _boy_ , and the heat of his hand and the head of sungjong’s cock bumping up against his makes howon choke on his own moan, knowing he isn’t going to last long.

it takes too much effort, an embarrassing amount, for howon to move away, even though he wants nothing more than to fuck sungjong up against the bookshelf.

“are you sure about this?” he asks again, looking past sungjong at an unfamiliar title.

it’s a horrible time to ask that question, with sungjong having both of their dicks in one hand, but he can’t help the lingering uneasiness in his chest.

“hey, look at me,” he whispers,  not using his rare commanding voice—the one that sends dread down to his bones—but something horribly soft that makes his chest ache and do what he says.

even when his hair is sticking to his face and getting into his eyes, splotches of red high on his cheeks, and bruises slowly forming on the pale expanse of his throat, sungjong looks almost ethereal even with the filtered gold barely brushing his edges.

he reaches for howon’s hand that’s had a permanent place at his waist and interlocks their fingers. their hands are sweaty, but sungjong’s is warm, rubbing a thumb across the back of his hand. the little notion sends a surge of possessiveness through his body and he wants to be all kinds of selfish when it involves sungjong.

he brings their hands to his chest; the back of howon’s pressed right where he can feel the loud thumping of sungjong’s heartbeat. it’s racing, almost as erratically as his own in his ears, and it’s addicting—knowing that someone like sungjong is affected, almost filthily so, by someone like him.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he says under his breath, so softly that howon thinks his ears are playing tricks on him. the words sound as if there’s more to it, a weight that he’s too afraid to think about, but then sungjong is gazing at him so sweetly and fondly. “now, kiss me already.”

he’s happy to oblige, surging forward across the few inches between their faces to press something chaste and soft, feeling freer than he had ever thought was possible.

the boy smiles against his mouth, almost breaking out into a full-blown grin, and he can feel sungjong’s pulse pick up from where his hand is still pressed to his chest. sungjong hums, lips parting just a fraction and releasing his hold on his hand to rest them where howon’s neck and shoulder connect.

the action has him lean forward, and he can’t help the almost embarrassing gasp he lets out when the head of his cock grazes the fabric of sungjong’s shirt. he’s angling his hips before he knows it, feeling something hot at the base of his spine when his cock bumps against sungjong’s.

the boy parts his lips more, making the kiss turn dirty again, with teeth clinking and howon swallowing every single whine that falls from sungjong’s lips. he almost mourns the release of the hold on the hair at the back of his neck, but the feeling of a fist around both of their cocks instantly makes his hips buck forward involuntarily.

he’s overwhelmed by how warm it is—sungjong’s hands and the air around them that’s starting to turn thick and making his shirt stick to his back. he feels like he can’t breathe, even when he has to pull away from sungjong’s mouth to swallow mouthfuls of air. he’s breathing in the same air as him, foreheads against each other as he stares at the curl of his eyelashes and the freckle on the right side of his nose.

sungjong tightens his fist and howon groans, low and from the back of his throat, and buries his face in his neck. he breathes in the warm scent of sunshine and tastes the salty tang of sweat when he’s kissing and sucking down the slope of his neck and across his shoulder, pulling back the collar of his pristine white shirt.

the sounds resonating through the room are absolutely filthy—with the slick noises of their cocks sliding against each other in sungjong’s hand, their precum making the slide easier, the soft sighs coming from sungjong’s swollen mouth and the tiny hitches in his exhales, and the barely there groaning of the bookshelf they’re leaning up against. howon can swear that he can hear woohyun and other guests arriving outside through the rush of blood in his ears.

the thought of it—that the pretentious and wealthy is just on the other side of the wall, completely oblivious to the fact that howon has the darling son of one of their friends pressed up against a dusty bookshelf sends a thrill down his spine that makes him lean forward a bit more. every inch of his body is touching sungjong’s, pliant and lovely, that howon has a fleeting thought that he’s defiling him.

but how can he resist, really, when the boy, whom howon always overhears be called a little angel at parties, is craning his neck, trying to tempt him with hooded eyes into leaving more bruises that he’s starting to think that he secretly likes.

“come on, come _on_ ,” sungjong pants. the words sends gusts of air onto howon’s lips and he’s suddenly swatting at his hand wrapped around their cocks and replacing it with his own, overcome with the need to touch and feel the warm skin himself, ignoring his own cock completely.

now free, sungjong’s hands roam. they slink under howon’s shirt, scraping his nails over his abs, letting out a small contented sigh. his hands fly up to grasp at his biceps when howon thumbs at the tip of his cock, smearing the little bead of precum and making the younger boy buck his hips.

howon ignores the tightening in his own gut that signals he’s close, just from watching sungjong gasp and writhe around, so he can focus on the boy before him, wanting to see lee sungjong come apart by his own hands. he strokes him hard and fast enough where sungjong’s legs start shaking and his hands are scrambling at howon’s back for purchase before eventually, and predictably, settling for the nape of his neck. his fingers run through the short hairs there, soft and fond and very much not like the dirty whines steadily pouring from sungjong’s throat.

“ _faster—_ “ sungjong breathes, mouth dropping open, yet he sounds firm and, with howon drawn to his hooded eyes and the movement of his throat as he swallows, he has no choice but to oblige.

he thumbs at the head, making the boy gasp out a _yesyesyes_ and _more, howon-ah_ , and he’s suddenly struck with the urge to hear every sound that can come out of the boy’s mouth.

sungjong pushes his hips up a bit, fucking _keening,_ and howon wonders how he can be so demanding and needy at the same time.  his back arches then, slightly off of the shelf, pushing his chest against howon’s, and another drop of precum dribbles from his cock, which howon stares at, allowing his fist to stroke faster and a little bit harder.

his mouth waters.

the hands on the back of his neck push and they’re kissing again—open-mouthed and sloppy with teeth clinking and their noses are almost uncomfortably pressed up against each other, except then he’s swiping his tongue over sungjong’s bottom lip when they part for half a second.

howon can feel the smile that is undoubtedly on sungjong’s face, mischievous and lovely as he exhales softly against his mouth before catching his teeth on howon’s bottom lip and pulling.

he grunts at that, thrusting his hips forward until he’s against the hollow of sungjong’s hipbone. he’s probably going to stain his expensive clothes, but then sungjong chokes on a whine when howon starts stroking him slower and all the thoughts of paying for dry cleaning fly out his head.

“ _close_ —‘m close, _c’mon_ ,” sungjong mutters, his pianist fingers tugging at his hair hard enough that it’s bordering on painful, but it sends something hot down his spine. howon wants more. 

it feels just as good as looking up and watching sungjong’s pretty little eyelashes flutter and the delicate flush on his cheeks spread to his neck and collarbones.  his mouth drops open to draw in breaths so loudly it sounds as if he’s drowning, but there’s still a tiny wild curl of that smile on the edge of his raw lips. something strange and warm clenches in howon’s chest when he suddenly imagines that smile hovering above him in his king-sized bed—long fingers between his legs and soft exhales in his ear.

“god, i want you to fuck me,” howon breathes, too loud in the tiny library.

and then sungjong gasps, harsh and slightly high-pitched, and his eyes flash open briefly before they’re closed again. his hands release his grip on his hair and he’s bringing them under howon’s arms to claw at his back, hips bucking, and he’s smiling again, laughing breathlessly as he’s almost about to tip over the edge. “yeah?”

howon thinks he looks fucking gorgeous, with tears at the corners of his eyes and teeth digging in his lower lip to stop the noises pouring from his mouth. he jerks him off harder, sloppier, until his hand is a blur on sungjong’s cock,  and the only sounds in the library are his barely contained groans, the obscene noises from his hand on his cock, and the distant thud-thud of his heart racing in his ears. “yeah, would feel so good.”

“ _fuck_ , howon-ah,” sungjong gasps and howon wants more—he wants more of sungjong breathing his name and red lines running down his back and more of the near-smug smile that is still on tugging on that godforsaken mouth.

he wants to see sungjong come, right now, with their clothes sticking to their sweaty bodies and mouths bitten raw and pants around their knees like the fucking teenagers they are.

sungjong lets out a little mewl then, back arching and one hand grabbing at howon’s wrist, and comes with a “hyung, hyung, howon-hyung” on his lips.

the word makes a ridiculous flush rise on howon’s face, because it’s like every single one of his embarrassing wet dreams—and the fact that it’s happening right now makes something strange and possessive squeeze his throat.

he grinds against sungjong’s hipbone once, twice before he comes, almost embarrassingly fast, with that sinful boy panting in his ear. his toes curl in his secondhand shoes and he has to bury his face in sungjong’s neck to muffle the groan that comes straight from his throat that will undoubtedly alert the company outside.

sungjong smooths down his hair while he comes down—their panting unbearably loud in the small room, and howon doesn’t want to move, even though it’s starting to get uncomfortable between their stomachs and his wrist cramps a little from where it’s stuck between their bodies.

but sungjong smells so much of home and sunlight that he doesn't want to move from where he’s nearly inhaling the boy’s neck.

“you’re heavy,” sungjong finally says, but makes no move to push him off. he still has his hands in his hair and he can hear the lazy contentment in his voice.

howon wishes they were in bed because now he wants nothing more than to fall asleep with his ankles tangled with sungjong’s.

“mmm,” he responds, muffled from where he’s still buried in sungjong’s neck. it’s sweaty and gross, but it’s better than going outside and holding a plate of hors d’oeuvres for people who always give him a dirty look because his fingernails are chipped.

the doorknob starts jiggling, startling them both, making howon jump away and sungjong curse and slam his head up against a book that had been sticking out on the shelf above. it topples over, falling to the floor with a slam and making them both wince even through the panic in their chests.

“hey!” they both breathe a sigh of relief, recognizing woohyun’s voice. “who’s in there?”

howon looks back at sungjong, and the panic must be evident in his eyes because he just smiles reassuringly and brings a finger up to his lips.

“it’s me, hyung!” he calls out, and the look that he sends howon at that makes him want to push him into his creaky little bed.

“what the hell are you doing in there?” the sounds of laughter and music increase outside. “mom’s looking for you!”

“i’ll be out in a second!” he says, starting to buckle his pants and set his hair back in its rightful place.

howon steps back to do the same, squinting in the dark to try and find where sungjong had thrown his jacket.

it’s quiet as they try to make themselves presentable again, but it’s definitely not uncomfortable, with the way they both glance at each other out of the corner of their eyes and how sungjong is always the one who goes in for a quick kiss or how howon is always the one who can’t keep his hands to himself.

“i am _not_ wearing this out there,” sungjong says.

howon looks up from where he’s buckling his pants to see sungjong staring forlornly at his shirt. the stain is obvious on the expensive material, already dried and wrinkled at the hem from where it had ridden up while they were rutting up against each other.

he doesn’t even need to look to know that he probably looks worse, but he says anyway “you look fine.”

sungjong glares at him. “you can’t expect me to wear a shirt like this to kiss up to strangers.”

“you can just not wear a shirt,” howon says, not even trying to hide the wide grin forming on his face.

he rolls his eyes in response and mutters something that sounds a lot like “pervert.”

“you have ten thousand shirts in that monster you call a closet upstairs,” howon says, trying to rub the stain off his shirt with a tissue. it looks even worse. “my closet, on the other hand, is in a different building.”

“fine,” sungjong huffs, but he’s smiling. “you can use one of my shirts too.” a hand tugs the crumpled tissue away from him. it pulls on the hem of the jacket’s sleeve, where it ends at his forearm. “and one of these too. your arms are nice but you look ridiculous.”

 “my arms are nice?” he bites his lip to prevent himself from smiling because they’re actually _flirting_ with each other. howon feels like he’s on a cloud. 

“mmm, i guess,” he responds noncommittally, but he looks fond when he elbows his ribs.

howon watches as sungjong tries to make himself look as nice as possible, even when he’s going to change in five minutes and no one will probably even glance at him when he’s sneaking upstairs. he dusts off his jacket and tugs at his shirt collar until it’s neat and, much more importantly, somewhat covering up the bruises that’s starting to form high on his throat.

sungjong shoves at him when he notices howon trying, very badly, to hide a grin.

 

 

 

 

 

they spend another ten minutes making out—with howon pinned against the door and sungjong lazily taking his sweet time with his tongue nearly down his throat.

it’s only because of woohyun who bangs on the door so hard that the door shakes and he knocks his forehead against sungjong’s that they don’t stay there—away from prying eyes and bathed in artificial light.

he does that little breathy laugh of his, eyes crinkling, while he rubs at his forehead, and howon has to resist pulling him forward again.

sungjong does it for him, giving him a soft chaste kiss before easily unlocking the door and flitting right out, leaving behind the warmth of sunlight and howon feeling like he could fly.

 

 

 

 

 

“what were you doing in there? you smell disgusting. were you with someone? oh my god, did you have sex on dad’s desk? what the fu—“

“shut up, hyung.”

 

 

 

 

 

howon stays in the library for ten minutes—half because he wants to make sure that no one notices sungjong and him had come out of the same room, and the other half absentmindedly staring at the stain on the floor on the other side of the room and wondering if it came from them.

he can still feel the sweat cooling on the back of his neck and his wrist is sore from where sungjong had grabbed onto him too hard—but he feels giddy and utterly infatuated and absolutely terrified.

sungjong had told him he was never going to leave, and it had sounded like a promise and something else that he was too afraid to dwell on. he could have meant anything with that statement—he could have said it just to make howon shut up, which was entirely plausible, but that would also mean that he would have said that just so they can rut up against each other and get it over with.

the thought makes his stomach drop, suddenly starting to second guess every little kiss or heavy look.

a shrill laugh coming from the other side of the door breaks howon out of thought, suddenly brought to the reality of his come-stained shirt and the phantom touch of sungjong’s nails down his back.

taking one last deep breath, he braces himself and opens the door.

the music is more audible now, something slightly jazzy and loud enough to drown out conversation, and there’s that mix of forced laughter, inane chatter, and the clinking of champagne glasses that always gets on his nerves. the smell of roses is absolutely mind-numbing and he can already feel a headache forming at the back of his head.

he tries to quickly slink upstairs, hugging the walls and not making eye contact with any of the guests, without attracting too much attention. it works, mostly because somehow everyone can tell that he’s the help and they glance at him out of the corner of their eye for half a second before turning their back to him to continue in trying not to strangle each other.

he doesn’t see sungjong or woohyun on the way up the stairs, but he does spot dongwoo, an old friend of theirs who had laughed too loudly at a bad joke when they were kids and had gotten them in trouble, who gives him a knowing look, and myungsoo, a friend of sungjong’s from school, who’s too busy clinging onto dongwoo’s arm and giving him puppy dog eyes.

howon bows to him, even when he’s on the other side of the room, and dongwoo just smiles—one that has myungsoo smiling along with him.

sungjong isn’t in his room when he quietly clicks the door shut, but there is a scrap of paper on the neat pile of clothes at the edge of the bed, presumably for him. it’s dark, and he nearly runs into the nightstand, even with the only light coming through the window.the breeze that comes in smells too familiar, like summer rain. he spots the vase from this morning, intact but the crack is obvious even from where howon’s standing due to sungjong’s inexperienced hands, but it feels a lot like home.

 

 

 

 

 

howon finds sungjong when the party is nearly over and more than half of the guests are trashed.

he’s nursing a glass of champagne in one hand, pianist fingers wrapped gently around the stem, occasionally taking sips while chatting with myungsoo out on the balcony. the temperature’s starting to drop outside but he has his sleeves rolled up his forearms and there’s a flush on his cheeks that slinks down his neck, signaling just how much he had had to drink. his hair is being tussled in the summer breeze, laughing at something myungsoo says, and he looks more like a teenager than he ever has.

howon goes over to them with a platter of baked clams, the smell undoubtedly going to cling to his skin when he gets home, and asks if they would like any.

myungsoo scrambles over to stuff as many clams into his mouth as he can while also trying to keep the conversation going with sungjong. the boy laughs and just tells him to shut up and eat before turning his eyes to him.

“howon-ah,” he says, sounding cold and indifferent like he always does at parties, even when they’re around his friends. they all know better.

“sir,” he replies, just as curt, and he nearly misses the heated look sungjong gives him and the quick tightening of his fingers around his flute of champagne.

sungjong had always told him that dark blue was a good color on him because of his hair, mentioning it every time he happened to wear the one shirt he owned in that specific color, and howon had a feeling that it wasn’t a coincidence when he had found it neatly folded on his bed, waiting for him.

he definitely knew it wasn’t a coincidence when sungjong gives him an appraising look up and down, at his pressed black slacks and two top buttons undone. his eyes linger on howon’s mouth, staring so hard that it feels like he’s going to burn holes, and howon swipes his tongue across his bottom lip just to watch his eyes track the movement.

his eyes flick up to meet howon’s, and they’re big and dark and remind him of when they were little kids, huddling underneath sungjong’s many covers during a thunderstorm with the door locked, listening to the rain pitter patter against the windows. they would be able to smell dinner wafting from downstairs and their stomachs would be grumbling, but sungjong wouldn’t move, which meant that howon wouldn’t move, and they had lain there for hours.

at some point sungjong would fall asleep and howon would get in trouble for letting him skip dinner, but it wasn’t his fault that he had been too preoccupied, staring at their hands, next to each other and barely touching but close enough to feel his warmth. it wasn’t his fault that he had been captivated with the way sungjong’s eyes moved behind his eyelids with dreams and slightly parted chapped lips releasing slow inhales and exhales.

now though, sungjong just rolls his eyes at the quirk of howon’s eyebrow, as if he had just not been caught looking like he wants to eat his butler alive.

eventually, he gets called back inside to start clean-up. he tells myungsoo that he’ll catch up with him soon, if they ever get the chance, and turns to bow to sungjong, who gives him a fond smile and a wink and it’s howon’s turn to roll his eyes.

he has to bite the inside of his mouth to resist grinning every five seconds while mopping the hallways.

 

 

 

 

 

it’s late by the time they finish setting the mansion back to how it was before—smelling like drying ink and roses— with howon chosen to make sure there were no half-full champagne glasses in rooms that had been declared off-limits.

it’s nearing three in the morning, but when he—coincidentally—passes by sungjong’s room, he can see the soft light seeping from under the door.

he remembers the feeling of the boy’s lips grazing his ear, hand pressing down on his shoulder, when he had told him to meet him in his room when howon was finished before flitting off again down the hallway.

he’s almost tempted to go back to his own bed, but the thought of sungjong brushing him off the next morning or, even worse, a sleepy pout, makes his feet suddenly feel like lead. the headache at the back of his head is still there, faint and irritating, but he knows that there was no chance of him sleeping tonight, after what had happened at the library.

or at least, that’s what he tells himself when he knocks on the door, gets no response, and walks in to find sungjong sitting up in his bed, slightly dozing with his head slowly drifting down onto his shoulder before starting back up again.

he blinks blearily up at him, slowly, as if making sure him showing up in his room isn’t a dream. “howon-ah?”

he smiles without helping it, wondering how well sungjong had slept last night. “you’re supposed to be asleep by now.”

the bags underneath sungjong’s eyes aren’t that dark, or at least, not as much as usual, but howon could see the exhaustion in the way he holds himself behind closed doors. he’s still wearing his clothes from the party, the top few buttons haphazardly undone as if he had given up on them halfway, and he starts cracking and rotating his neck, wincing every now and then.

sungjong doesn’t reply with a snarky comment, a sign that means he really _is_ tired, and just continues to stare at him with a tiny affectionate smile peeking at his lips.

frankly, it’s adorable, with his droopy eyes and hair that’s close to looking bed-ridden, and howon wants nothing more than to crawl into that king-sized bed with him.

instead, he wanders over to the lamp on the other side of the room to turn it off, and says, “go to sleep, sungjong-ah.”

the boy makes a contented noise at that, and howon could see even in the dark when he flops back onto the bed, limbs going every which way. he doesn’t even take up half the bed.

the only light left in the room is the moonlight pouring in from the window, and even then howon could barely see as he maneuvers his way back to the door.

he stubs his toe on the bedpost, about to curse profusely, when there’s some rustling from the bed and howon can suddenly see the top of sungjong’s head pop out from under the covers.

“where are you going?” he asks, his words slow and genuinely curious.

“uhm.”

he can practically hear sungjong roll his eyes and smile when he says “come here.”

and howon has no choice but to do exactly that.

he walks slowly over to the other side of the bed, acting as if he’s trying to find his way through the dark even though the moon outside is perfectly lighting the way, when really, he’s trying not to panic.

he’s been in sungjong’s bed hundreds—thousands of times before, but they both know this time is different, and not just because he knows exactly what the son of his boss sounds like when he’s choking on his name with his pants undone.

it feels like when they had met for the first time, when he didn’t know where they had stood or how he should act around him. even as a kid, sungjong would be too observant for his own good, and he would know exactly when howon would be thinking too hard and had just grabbed onto his hand and pulled him out along to the garden.

and even now, with howon’s mind racing with the fact that he doesn’t remember if he has to help prepare for breakfast tomorrow morning or the fact that he probably smells like seafood and that he’ll stink up sungjong’s bed, the boy just tells him “i can hear you thinking from here,” and pulls back the sheets.

he feels twitchy, but he lies down anyway, on his back, with a considerable distance between him and sungjong. the bed is fluffy, like he’s lying on a cloud, and it’s softer than the bed from the master bedroom that he had gotten in trouble with by jumping on it so many years ago—only because of the challenging glint in sungjong’s eyes when he had him dared him. sungjong’s bed is the softest bed that howon feels like could exist, but really, it’s probably because of the smell of sunshine coming from the pillows that always makes his chest ache.

instantly, sungjong flips over onto his left side, scooting closer to tangle their legs together and hooking his bony ankles with his own. he’s close enough now that he can feel the soft inhale exhale on the top of his shoulder, tickling his neck, but other than that, he’s not touching him.

“what are you thinking of?” the boy whispers, pressing his cold toes underneath his calves, and it’s like they’re exchanging stories again.

he turns around until he’s facing him, and it’s a horrible decision because he can see the edges of the moon reflected in his doe eyes and the slight furrow in his brows and how could he have ever thought that he could leave him?

“leaving your sorry ass here,” he replies seriously, voice soft and low. he knows that sungjong can see right through him, somehow always able to, with how sungjong’s eyes, now wide awake, soften in the pale moonlight and a hint of a reluctant smile appears. howon tries to put a name to what erupts in his chest at that.

“you can’t get rid of me that easily,” he counters with an easy smile, but there’s that determined glint again that howon has grown dangerously accustomed to, and he knows that he’s being serious.

“yeah?” and it’s easy like this, with howon starting to feel exhaustion seep into his bones and his eyes drifting closed every few seconds before snapping right back open, only to find sungjong staring nearly unblinkingly right back him. it’s as easy as the conversations they have that consist only of knowing glances and lip bites, usually when sungjong doesn’t want to be coddled while studying, or when howon had felt useless after hurting his shoulder the other day, or when they’re just content being in each other’s company.

“yeah,” sungjong whispers, starting to sound like an excited little kid. “we’ll move out of here and we’ll never have to see woohyun-hyung ever again. we can move to the city, get a cheap apartment, and live off of ramen forever.”

howon hums, eyes closed, and it sounds nice. he knows that it won’t be as easy as it sounds though. if sungjong leaves—leaves with _him_ —then there’s a big chance that he’ll be disowned, and they’ll barely be able to scrape by with his lack of work experience and howon having to take double shifts.

but the thought of waking up to sungjong in a crappy apartment in the same bed as him sends something warm through his veins. he had always blearily blinked up at him whenever he would be sent to wake him up, muttering about having ten more minutes, and howon knows that that would never change.

“no more watching woohyun follow sungyeol around like a puppy and sungyeol acting as if he doesn’t like him at all?”

sungjong laughs, short and sweet. “it’s kind of cute. it reminds me of someone.” howon feels it when he hooks his thumb with his pinky.

“go to sleep,” he replies lamely, wanting to smack his own forehead and grin like a maniac.

sungjong doesn’t reply—just shuffles around a bit until they’re pressed closer together and his hand is somehow nestled into howon’s hair.

he listens intently to sungjong’s breathing with his eyes still closed, waiting until it’s even and slow and his hand in his hair has stopped running through the strands. the rest of the house is silent, all of the maids gone downstairs, and there’s an occasional pattering of footsteps passing the door that always has howon tensing until sungjong presses his toes under his calves harder or squeezes his pinky around howon’s thumb.

“sungjong-ah?” he says, warm underneath the sheets and slightly muffled where he’s buried his face into the pillow where it smells too much like summer.

“hm?”

he’s on the brink of unconsciousness, so he’s not thinking too clearly when he says “y’know, i’ve wanted to suck your dick since i was like, thirteen.”

sungjong chokes out a laugh, high-pitched and so loud that someone comes bursting in, a maid with a wild look in her eyes and make-up half off. howon throws himself off the bed with an inaudible thump, nearly banging his head against the bedpost, and has to smile to himself when he listens to sungjong explain that nothing had happened while sounding very much on the verge of tears.

when she leaves and howon peeks his head over, watching sungjong wipe away tears with a sweet smile on his face, he knows they’re going to be alright.

 


End file.
